Ethel Fielding

As the march to Leeds proceeds, Ethel and Paul fall further and further behind. Paul’s condition would be the obvious explanation for their location within the exodus. Paul’s condition, however, does little to impede his ability to walk. Paul is not the anchor dragging them back.

It is Ethel.

There is a point when even the strongest resolve will finally meet the limits of flesh. A point when the accumulated burdens one has taken upon themselves have become so heavy that exhaustion is all that remains of a person. With her and Paul’s lives in her hands and their livelihoods upon her back, this is the point that Ethel has reached. Philip and Ezra might have been able to lighten her load, but when one is determined to take the weight of the world upon their shoulders, each burden shared only serves to allow a new one to be lifted, and even a burden shared is never truly shrugged.

Still, no miles could resist the quiet desperation within Ethel. When they finally make it to Leeds they are welcomed to the Mackenzie family home. To be served seems so perfectly natural for her hosts, but for Ethel the experience is alienating. These servants are not so different to her, and yet the casual ease with which these people become mere functions in the hands of her would-be family is unsettling. It is all too easy to imagine herself in their position.

For the first time in her life, Ethel finds fine silverware placed in her hands. It was not until the second course that she realized she’s using them in the wrong order. Amelia Mackenzie sits at the head of the table, and it is soon clear even to Ethel that whoever the nominal head of the family might be, it is Amelia who has the power here. Still, Amelia’s look of distaste for her fumbling table manners at least has a sincerity to it that Ethel can not find within the cloying smiles of the other Mackenzies.

She finds her rooms had been placed next to Philip’s. It was a small thing, most likely intended as an act of kindness, but it does not escape her notice that she was not consulted on this matter. Why would she be? What opinion could she possibly voice but uncritical gratitude for their generosity?

Ethel spurns her own room for Paul’s. She needs to look after him. That is not a lie, but neither is it entirely true. Paul’s cloak needs to be taken for cleaning, but he will not part with it willingly, his hands balled in white-knuckled fists about its hem. As he looks up into Ethel’s eyes, she can see this isn’t just another fit of confusion. On the contrary, there is a clarity in his eyes that she has not seen in weeks. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. To hold that cloak is to know he is loved, and Paul doesn’t ever want to forget that. So instead she offers him her hand to hold.

Paul gently slips away into sleep. He looks… so peaceful. She can hardly even see the movement of his chest. There is a moment of stillness. The kind of moment which comes only in the darkest, most silent nights, when one could look at the world, at themselves, and see what is truly there.

Ethel briefly sees her parents, lying in the bed from which they may never rise. She sees Philip, down on one knee before her. She sees his family’s eyes upon her, some scornful, others pitying. She sees the business and the art which is her inheritance. She sees one home taken from her after another.

She sees all these things… and she looks away. She opens the bag of Paul’s tools and places them delicately before her on the table. There was a time when she might have been able to look upon the truth without being destroyed by it. A time when the responsibilities she had bound herself with were light and airy things, fanciful costumes and children's bonnets. Right now, however, for Ethel there can only be the work.

And that will have to be enough.